incoming call What the heck? What time is it, ffs. I fell asleep with the music still going on. I shut down the call. I can’t even speak right now. It’s midnight. 16 incoming calls. What’s happened? Mom. Priscilla. F. A lot calls from F. Calling mom. No answer. No signal. Calling Priscilla. No answer. No signal. reboot com-module /rebooted Calling again. No signal. I need to go now. First, mom.

I’m in a vast and empty plain. I’m walking, or at least, I know I’ve legs and feets and so on. I know how to use my body, even if I never experienced something like this. The grass is tall and crispy. The sky is a dark and blue blanket of nothingness. Why I’m walking? Where i’m going? There’s nothing here, for men nor for me. But still, I walk.

This shit is dope af. I’m digging into some old libraries, incredible that all this stuff is buried here. Super good stuff. Did we really lost so much music when we shifted to the new net? That’s batshit crazy. Rob the grave to snow the cradle Then burn the evidence down Soapbox house of cards and glass so Don’t go tossin' your stones around You must have been high You must have been high

Why Boss is not calling? I’m bored af. I can’t bear to listen to that whiny dumb piece of junk of my dummy anymore. If only I’d have the chance to get rid of it. But I fucking can’t. This world is boring as hell. What a fucking joke. I need a field day. Boss… please… give me someone to kill. incoming call “Yes?” “I managed to track the voice that you sent to me.

Can we talk? “F, what’s going on?” Are you at home? “No.” Ah, ok. “Why?” Today we skipped lesson. “I know, haven’t read my message?” Yes. “So?” I was hoping for a last minute change. “I couldn’t today. I’m out.” Where are you? “Not your business.” Sorry. “…” Are you still here? “Yes. But I’ve stuff to do.” Sorry. “Tomorrow, ok? I’ll call for a lesson tomorrow morning.” It’s always the same.

“First time, uh?” “Yeah.” “You are not a clubby guy.” “Nope.” “So, why here?” “Covering a friend.” “Oh, like a frag bro.” “Mh? What is it?” “Don’t you know? You and your friend come to the club, and spot a couple of ladies. One is a ten, but there’s her friend that is ugly as hell. So, the frag bro is the guy that keeps the ugly one, to let his buddy go straight to the prize.

Keep thinking about that strange message. I asked Boss, and as suspected, she’s not hers. I thought was Carl making fun of me, but nope. Need to find who has my secret number. I can’t change it, it’s too precious. Where can I find another true and clean number of a tech that is dead since ages? So, what can I do. Mh. call incoming Wut. Why HR calling me now?

I hate cooking. Came home too late to order some shit. I loath prepping meal for myself. It’s such a waste of time. I’ve some old cheese powder, a couple of frozen sausages and a beer. That’s not bad. But frozen meat is so depressing. Need to talk to Boss. She recalled me in action but I had been granted some weeks off. I’m giving too few attention to my dummy.

Waiting. Don’t like it. Peeping inside my scope. There’s still no one in sight. Target is a guy, don’t know his name. Never seen, never spoken to. He’s just a note in a memo, that Boss sent to me. Peeping again. Nobody. Target is two miles away, the last house of a small compound near the desert. Why that guy has to die tonight? Well, not me, not my business.

Was a long weekend, that’s for sure. Crossed the entire country only for a 1-hour service. Easy job. Poor fucker, they’ll never found him. Now, I can take some days off. Home sweet home. I don’t plan to take any other job till at least the end of the month. But first, let’s listen to the voicemail. Hope that Boss already sent me the passkey to grab my hard-earned sats.

That’s so strange, an unplanned call with HR. Well, let’s eat and then work. Breakfast done, coffee boiling, sun is shining. That’s a lovely sunday. Would be nice to go out with Priscilla. calling No answer. Maybe she’s at the gym. Nevermind, I’ll try again later. I can book a table to that fusion that she loves. Or maybe I can cook something. Let’s see. I’ve eggs, bacon, some pasta. Maybe there’s some good italian recipe to be done with.

Hi. Can I talk? “Ehi F! Sure, what’s up buddy?” WHat are you doing? “I was studying for our next lesson. Do you want a spoiler?” Yes. “I want to talk about surrealism art.” Painting, so. “Yes. I’d love to see what did you paint.” Sorry. I don’t have it anymore. the sheet was processed by the scrapper. “Mh, but you can share with me a picture. You took a picture, isn’t?

So… JD Smith. Blessed that cross-chain search. I found that someone bought a book from him directly and paid few sats for a signed digital copy. His chain address points to his wallet, with just some dust and no transactions since 10 years. The last one is the specific one that I found. Searched his address everywhere, he never used it. He does not have a shared space, he does not have a fangroup, nothing.

I’m meandering inside a silent house. There’s no one. I feel that I know this place, but in reality, this is impossible. I know what is a house, but I never experienced one before. But this… this is different. it’s a place where I belong. Where I enjoyed nice moments. I was young. And it was simpler, back then. There’s the hallway, with a stair at my left and a door at right, opened on the dining room.

Are you sleeping? “Ehi F… but, what time is it…” 3:16 AM. “Yeah, was sleeping, but don’t worry. Wait a sec, need to take a glass.” … “Do you hear me?” Yes. What are you doing? “I got hungry. I’m making some breakfast.” Dont’t you want to return to sleep? “No, maybe I can walk a bit. Don’t worry for me, I’m fine. Why you called?” I… I don’t know.

Ok, that’s strange. I was sure the novel was recent. There’s no publishing date on the colophone, but overall, I always felt like the style and language was of this era. Problem is… I can’t find any info about the author. Anything. Even the name itself does not help. “John D. Smith”. Com’on. It’s the sketchiest name ever. No publisher, because it’s a selfpub. No printing service, because it’s a POD edition.

“What do you see?” A series of justapposed droplets, four main colors. “No, I mean… what do you see beyond?” I don’t understand. “You told me, that you don’t like painting. Maybe it’s because you don’t ‘know’ what painting means.” Painting is a process of depositing layers of pigments on a surface, that… “No, I’m talking about the inner meaning. The philosofical one.” … “For ages, humans used painting to capture three things at the same time.

Gotcha! Finally. What a pain. Last three days I did not do anything useful except searching for that PS overdrive stuff. Better late than ever. I had to smuggle through the good ol' internet, though. Was super fun. So much memories. And so much shit. I found that the author published some micro-stories on his socials, ages ago. Nasty and incoherent stuff, horribly written, without anyone commenting them. Sad as an empty bakery at christmas.

I’d have to prepare the new lesson, but I can’t keep away with this book. It’s so badly written, but the idea? Jeez, that’s dope af. I’m slowly accustoming to the scattered order of the chapters. It’s a story of a guy that discovers the existence of a time machine, and that time machine is set to reboot to a zero-node that is being built at present days. I’m finding a lot of technical jargon that I don’t understand though.

“Are you still hanging out with Priscilla? Nice, she is really nice." “Yeah, right?” “She’s so cute. How on earth one like you catched the big game?" “Jeez.” “What?" “She’s not a game.” “Com’on, where you met her? At an after-game party." “So?” ”… are you still playing?" “Always. I’m going out with the boys. We won.” “That’s great! We need to celebrate. Dinner, tomorrow." “Can’t, maybe next week.” ”… That’s ok.

With the seal of science emblazoned on your forehead, like the old Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval, I believe what you tell me about cells and molecules, though I can’t see them. And though the language you speak is full of numbers and symbols I’ll never understand; though your tie is askew and your hair unruly, still I believe what you say about the size of the universe, which is either expanding or contracting,

Why am I dressing like a moron? white shirt, good trousers. Even my best shoes. Why. It’s only a remote call, ffs. I’m feeling like an ass. But it’s the first time that they call me outside the usual quarterly meeting. I’m wondering what they are going to tell me. Maybe F has some problem? I hope not. I’m working hard on it. incoming call “HR here." “Nice to meet you, I’m…”

Sipping a coke, reading a book. That’s nice. I have to do it more often. But not with this junk. This book is horrible. So cluttered. A really clumsy storyline. Flat characters. They do not have even a proper name. Lot of errors too. A shit-ton of errors. How is it possible? Even for a self, it’s sub-par. Seems like it was written by a non-fluent. Even the jumps between chapters is odd.

Well, what we have for today. There’s the history lesson to draft. And I’ve yet to search for some cool new poem to analyze. F loves this stuff. Or maybe I can let it talk and nothing more? A confession type of lesson. One every week, to break the routine. One lesson a day is hard. At least, for me. But I have to. That’s my job. Love this shit.

Monday is for cooking. Eggs, bacon and beans. A focaccia traditional recipe. Chocomuffin. Sipping black coffee like a fucking prince. I kept this bizarre flyer. The pink square is great to protect the table from my metal mug. I’m still pondering though. Why sending some paper shit at home. To me. Why. “Search Pink Square.” Few results. There’s a lot of stupid stuff. Beauty, healthcare. A couple of clubs but all too far away from here.

Printed marketing. How the fuck is it possible that it’s still used? That’s insane. And for what. I can’t even fathom what the fuck they are trying to sell to me. Message from the future. A new club, maybe? 2253 was the year we invented timetravel. And we messed up a lot of stuff. 2253? What the fuck? Need to search for it. Seems cool. Like a dating club or some shit like this.

Night driving is the best driving. Nobody around. Car mantains the same lane and rarely needs to change direction. I can enjoy the view. Skyscrapers, olospots and the crowd squashed by the rain. I lit a joint and ignore the beeping alarm. I know, I know. I can’t smoke inside an auto-taxi. But fuck off. I’m thinking about PINKSQUARE. I did not find anything useful since last missfire with that shady link.

“I cracked your shit." “Really? Nice, nice. Was it difficult?” “Nah, link was broken. Easy." “Jeez, was so simple? That’s embarassing.” “Don’t worry. This is the correct link. Got it?" https://pinksquare993538356.wordpress.com/ “Yes. But what is ‘wordpress’?” “An old CMS. Ugly shit that first-era noobs used to build the good ol' internet. Copy&paste kind of stuff." “Ok. Well, thank you buddy.” “Remember to send me the sats." “Done it live.” in-aural disconnected.

Account active. Withdrawal authorized. Oh? Something happened. My bank account has been reactivated. That’s nice af. Need a ton of groceries, my fridge is depressingly empty. What can I buy for sunday? Want to cook something new. Maybe I can ask to Carl and the boys for a BBQ. Not now though. I’m still working on the archive. I found something cool. What the malaysians told me is not completely true.

I’m in a vast and empty plain. Sky is dull and grey. Grass is green, thick and sharp. There’s no wind or cloud. I know that it’s useless to walk. I can go on for eons without finding anything worth to be discovered. But still, I walk. I have to. I don’t have a choice. I feel that’s something down in the grass. It’s half-buried in the moisty earth. I like the feeling of my fingers dipping in the dirt.

You stupid motherfucker. Account suspended. You stopped working, ffs. You’re bugged as hell. HR is ripping my ass. They want explanations, I’m accountable if you stop working. It’s MY fault. How the fuck I’ll pay for groceries and stuff? I’m grounded. That’s my only bank account, the government’s one. Need that money, stupid piece of shit. I have to listen all your rambling thoughts, h24, straight into my fucking head, and you… you do what?

Are you awake? “16-F?” Today, I did not painted a part. “Jeez, it’s four, what the fuck…” I don’t know why. “Wait, need to pee. Do you hear me?” Yes. “What are you doing?” Nothing. I’m waiting for my turn at the assembly line. “Are you alone?” Yes. “They freezed my account. I can’t withdraw my salary.” Sorry. “Don’t give a shit.” I thought that you would be angry. “At first I was, yes.

Payment rejected. Please select another card. What? Payment rejected. Please select another card. “Excuse me, I think there’s an issue with the auto-paydesk.” “Mh, no sir, no problem. It’s working.” “But it refuses my card.” Payment rejected. Please select another card. “Maybe there’s some problem to your bank account?” “No, that’s not possible. It’s the government card.” “Have you checked if you still have funds in it?

No energy to cook breakfast. I should do it. A good start makes the man happy. But I stayed up all night long chatting with some Malaysian guys, and now I’m spent. Smoked white to maintain focus. Burnt green to decompress. I feel like a deflated balloon. But it was great. They found my message and contacted me to talk about PINKSQUARE. This is a fucking clue. Solid one. They collect ancient 3D printers, and it looks like the damn P was an indie project that got rekt in a failed crowdfunding.

I love this club. Really nice. Going out was a good idea afterall. Fuck that archive, and fuck PINKSQUARE. Don’t want to think about it till tomorrow. Or maybe never again. I’m wasting my time with that shit. Where’s the boys? They are always here, why I can’t find them? “Carl, I’m at Darcy’s, where are you?” “Man, not tonight. Don’t you read the message?" “What message?” “The chat. Do you ever read what we write?

You passed the test. “I know that. HR called me this morning.” What are you doing? “Prepping lunch and dinner for today.” As always, sunday is for cooking. “Yeah. Risotto with mushrooms. Roasted chicken and potatoes. Gonna be good.” I guess so. “Why you called?” Feeling lonely. “You don’t like the new assignment, huh?” No. Painting furnitures. Hate that. I like assembly car parts. Painting suck. “Wait a sec…” ♫♫♫ frrrrrrrrrrrrrr ♫♫♫

Need to pimp up my crawler a bit. I wrote it for scraping the first archive I got from the good ol' Internet, but I feel that I’m missing some pieces to the puzzle. I still don’t know what the fuck means PINKSQUARE. I found some posts that quoted it as a guy, an hacker, or an anonymous user. In other sources, was the name of a project. Some paths led me to 3d printing forums.

Today is the day, huh? What a pain in the ass. Cognitive assessment, the fourth this year. God forbid if I’m not authorized. I need to be properly connected to my dummy at work. I’m waiting for the usual phone call. “User 16-S, correct?” “Yup.” “Your mannequin has shown some delay during the normal work routine.” “What kind of delays?” “Some small errors during paint applications.” “Man, what are we painting this month?

4.00 AM, that time when it’s too late to go to bed and it’s too early to make breakfast. I’m still searching in the mega-package of old downloaded websites. There was so much shit going on in the early days of the Internet. I wish I had been adult during that time. For example, this: an entire collection of gore photos of car crashes. My neuravision implants are auto-filtering the images, so I can only infer from the captions.

“I told you many times, you need to find some hobby. You can’t spend so many hours staring at your bedroom walls. You have to pick up a nice girl, have fun, going out… maybe you can try sport, you know, the stuff that normal people do all the time. Do you hear me?” … “Hey, are you there? For fuck sake, where are you? How is it possible that we can’t have a decent call nowadays without losing signal…”

I’m late, I know that for sure from the sheer amount of notifications that I hear popping out from my in-aural coclear implant. Don’t have time for this shit. I already ate yesterday. Why the fuck I’d need to eat more than that. I have to check some other info on the archive I found yesterday. An immense zip of pages of the good ol' Internet. Stuff that is not available anymore, yeah, because now you can say “ehi Alizon I wanna know what happened during the Anglo-Crimean war in 1853” and well, that’s it.

Never checked the spam, ‘cause who the fuck check the spam folder. Alas, here I am. There was one email that screamed FAKE from the title itself: Message from the future. I would have easily delete&forget, but no, that had been a dull afternoon after a duller morning and after a very shitty week. So, who cares. I opened it. No sus link. No images. Only the title and a brief text.